Silent Apologies
by dragonartist5
Summary: A story about scars. (One-Shot)


He winces whenever his eyes land on them. He knows they're there, of course. Over the years, he's mapped each one.

Some are unfamiliar to him. The scars were there before, and they remain as reminders of a past they do not share.

Some he knows all too well. The stories behind them are ones he'd like nothing more than to forget. Hiccup knows some are his doing. These scars are most painful to gaze upon. His eyes find them, and flick away, pained.

Some are recent, still healing. Reminders of battles and epic adventures. He has his fair share of them as well.

Sometimes he cannot help himself. Hiccup reaches out to touch them. There is a thin, white scar stretching across his neck. A faint notch in his fin, another at the edge of the thin wing membrane. There's a thick, gnarled scar on his inner foreleg, another on his belly. Hiccup traces each one, eyebrows knit, silent.

The missing tail fin is the worst. Hiccup's palm travels over the place where it tore off, leaving a canvas of scarring and mangled tissue. Toothless feels the boy's silent apology through the gentle touch. Hiccup is forgiven, though he will never forgive himself.

. . .

Astrid maps his own scars. Slowly, tentatively. They lie side by side, kissed by heat of the dying fire. Her fingers travel up his arms, tracing them. They are all familiar to her. She knows him, she knows every crater, every bruise and laceration. Every reminder of the battles he's fought alone, and the battles they've fought together. He can feel the questions rising in her throat, because some scars she can't explain. Some are mysteries to her.

As she caresses each one, he can feel her body tense. Her muscles coil, her expression becomes stony. She curses the enemies that made them, and the gods themselves.

Her eyes are deep and dark, pools of spinning thought and silent apologies. He tries to reassure her with his own.

It's always hard when she discovers a new one, and she knows she will never truly get used to them. She's trying.

. . .

He remembers the fear. So real, blinding. White hot pain and a metal fist that clenched his heart. He knows he shattered that day, broke in two as he felt the heartbeat fade. He saw the darkness closing in and felt the urge to give up.

He had never been so ready to die.

When the heartbeat rekindled, and the boy returned to him, he regarded it as nothing short of a gift from the gods. He'd been given a second chance, and lost it. He'd never heard of third chances. Until then. That heartbeat saved him, in all the ways you can be saved.

By the bedside he stood. He had to be sure the heartbeat thrummed against his own. Weak, but still there.

It was only when he the boy regained consciousness and stood from the bed that the reality of the lost limb hit him. He caught the boy when he fell, because that's what he'd always done. The unfamiliar metal contraption brushed roughly against his skin. Toothless pressed his snout against it. He hoped Hiccup would recognize his silent apology. He had tried his best, he really had. It hadn't been good enough, and he'd never forgive himself.

The boy would never heal. Not completely. Scars like that never do. Then again, Toothless had a similar scar. Maybe they would heal together.

. . .

The scar is small, easy to miss. It was the first thing she noticed. It was the first thing that revealed the identity of her son, so many years later.

Her eyes travel to it every time she looks at him. You could say it's history is beautiful.

It is the stuff of legends, fate written in flesh. The baby, barely a year old, marked by a dragon. Spared.

To her, it is hard to swallow. A hard lump of guilt lodges its way into her throat every time she gazes upon it. It is a reminder of all the wrongs she has done. Everything she's missed.

How can she ever explain it to him? She had left him, and she hadn't returned. She has no excuse.

Her gaze lands on it now, as he returns from the great hall, closely followed by a weary and protective Night Fury. Her eyes travel from the thin white line to his perpetually hunched shoulders, to the dark circles painted under his eyes.

She steps forward cautiously, embraces him. Readily, he returns the gesture, letting some of the weight he carries settle upon the both of them. She's glad for it. Bit by bit, she will repay him. It is her job to be here, for him.

Softly, her fingertips brush the scar. She lets her head fall onto his shoulder, sending him a thousand silent apologies. Apologies for the reckless choice that tore them apart. Apologies for twenty years of unfillable absence. A wrong she can never undo.


End file.
